


i'm one with something divine

by violetdivinity



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Fluff, Hand Jobs, M/M, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 16:03:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11993160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetdivinity/pseuds/violetdivinity
Summary: By the end of the day, Oswald is simultaneously a live wire of energy and exhausted down to his bones.  The wolves of Gotham howl at his door, bringing threats to his kingdom’s doorstep by the dozens.  Oswald’s not new to this game;  he’s felt the heavy weight of a crown on his head before, has tangled with enough traitors and allies alike to know that just because he sits on the throne today doesn’t mean tomorrow is guaranteed.  Gotham is a churning ocean, the tides never quite the same each day, and though he’s learned to sail these seas well, there’s always days where things just go plainwrong.On those days, he seeks out Victor.





	i'm one with something divine

**Author's Note:**

> Just some fluffy Freezewald porn. Hope you enjoy! <3 Title taken from "Divine" by Laura Marling.

_But when the note lingers, sending shivers down my spine_  
_I feel in my fingers, that I’m one with something divine_

By the end of the day, Oswald is simultaneously a live wire of energy and exhausted down to his bones.  The wolves of Gotham howl at his door, bringing threats to his kingdom’s doorstep by the dozens.  Oswald’s not new to this game;  he’s felt the heavy weight of a crown on his head before, has tangled with enough traitors and allies alike to know that just because he sits on the throne today doesn’t mean tomorrow is guaranteed.  Gotham is a churning ocean, the tides never quite the same each day, and though he’s learned to sail these seas well, there’s always days where things just go plain _wrong_.

On those days, he seeks out Victor.

The lounge is closed, the last of the patrons and crooks gone to crawl along Gotham’s underbelly in search of new places of debauchery, and Oswald shoves a cup full of Ivy’s magic tea into Victor’s hands, offering little explanation beyond _my office, five minutes._ When Victor walks in without knocking (typical for after hours, a feat Oswald only allows a select few to do), all bare chest and hypnotic blue eyes, all Oswald can do is take a moment to drink in the gorgeous sight and not-so-gently maneuver Victor across the room and seat him in one of the plush, violet-cushioned chairs.  Victor doesn’t say anything yet - and he doesn’t need to, he was there when the assassins snuck in, when the squad of GCPD idiots rolled up and suddenly began to rethink their allegiance to The Penguin, he _knows_ the reason Oswald is on edge better than anyone - and the trademark stoicism is appreciated now as Oswald climbs onto Victor’s lap, plunking his forehead on Victor’s chilled, strong right shoulder.

A moment passes, and Oswald simply focuses on the sound of his own ragged breathing and Victor’s intoxicating scent.  Maybe it’s due to whatever chemicals mutated Victor’s biology, but Victor always has this fresh, clean smell and feeling to him, like a river running through a mountain, pure and otherworldly.  There’s a faint tinge of metal from his suit, but mostly it’s just that purifying aura that is distinctly _Victor,_ a comforting familiarity that cleanses Oswald’s tired soul, makes him feel whole and new again.  This is good, he thinks.  This is what he _needed._

Then there’s large, clammy hands on both of his shoulders, and Oswald gives a quiet groan in relief because _yes,_ he’s needed this too: Victor’s hands running up and down his back, clever fingers digging into the knots of tension in the meat of Oswald’s shoulders, making him purr deep in his throat like a content cat.  The stress of the day bleeds away with each long, slow caress up his spine.  Gone are the thoughts of the assassins, and the knife on Oswald’s desk, coated still in their blood; gone are the sneers of the incompetent policeman, who tug on their strings in rebellion of their puppeteer; gone are those who wish to see him fall, who wish to see him _dead_ ; here there is only Victor and the steadfast strokes of his hand and his cool lips pressed to Oswald’s hair, bringing him home.

It isn’t the first time he’s ended up like this, collapsing on Victor’s lap, needing to be taken care of, and it surely won’t be the last.  Victor never complains or turns Oswald away, though, even when Oswald springs this on him quite suddenly.  Oswald tries not to think about how and why he’s become so reliant on Victor, why his dexterous hands and murmured _it’s okay, I’ve got you_ seem to settle his disquieted moods unlike any other.  Even now, all it takes is Victor working on a particularly deep knot in his shoulder while pressing a quiet _that’s it_ against his hair to make him want to melt against Victor until he doesn’t know where he ends and where Victor begins.  He doesn’t know how or why this happened, but it _has,_ Oswald is more grateful for it than he expresses.

(He did tell Victor, once.  He was wine-warm and giddy after Victor talked him down from doing something stupid and rash, looking up into those chemical-blue eyes like they enchanted him as he said, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”  Victor snorted an amused sound, squeezing Oswald’s shoulder a bit too tenderly to be platonic.

“Burn the place down, probably,” Victor said, and Oswald’s lips split into a cherry-red grin, and god, he was in so much trouble.)

As the last of Oswald’s rough edges are smoothed out, Victor’s hands slow until he’s simply brushing his thumbs along the sides of Oswald’s neck, gentle and soothing.  Most of the time, this is all Oswald needs: a good petting down and verbal reassurance that everything is okay, that _he_ is okay.  He’ll lean up, press a thank you kiss to Victor’s lips, and then leave the man be for the evening.

But other times, like this one, Oswald isn’t satisfied with just their regular routine.  There’s an itch, a gnawing ache that begs to be tended to, to be filled.

Running his tongue along his lips, he carefully withdraws from Victor’s shoulder until they’re face to face.  There’s the beginning of a smirk on Victor’s face, an expectant lift of his brow that makes Oswald squint.

“Better?”

This is where Oswald usually says _yes, thank you, have a goodnight Victor_ , but today he’s working off the script, driven by a deep hunger to be so much closer.  Mustering his courage, he manages to look Victor in the eye (a mistake, because it’s so easy to lose himself in those swirls of blue) as he squeezes Victor’s shoulders, psyching himself up.

“Can you -” Oswald cuts off there, lips forming a firm line.  Over the course of their _thing_ (too new to be called a relationship, yet too deep and fulfilling for a simple word like that), he’s gotten better at asking for what he wants, but sometimes he simply wants _so much_ that he can’t verbalize it.

“I don’t know, can I?” Victor says while stroking Oswald’s neck again, and Oswald gives him a pointed look for the sass.  He inhales a deep breath, holding it for a second as he once again bolsters his bravery.

“Touch me,” he breathes out at last, more demand than question like he intended.  His eyes are wide and wild from voicing his desire, heaving a breath like he’s already at the edge of the precipice when they haven’t even started.  Victor has that effect on him, and it scares Oswald how quick he is to fall under his spell, but it scares him more to think of being without it.

Eyes sweep over Oswald’s face in consideration, and then Victor is running his hands down Oswald’s neck, past his chest until he’s cupping Oswald’s half-hard cock, which twitches against the tight fit of his slacks.  Just the smallest touch has Oswald reeling from the jolt of pleasure, lips parting as his eyes flutter, riding the heady wave of sensation.

“Like this?”

Words escape Oswald this time, all dried up on his tongue from the flame of desire, and he can only give a feeble nod before leaning forward again, resting his forehead against Victor’s shoulder as he all but clings to him, trying not to shake from his need.  Victor takes his time, makes a show of it, giving Oswald’s clothed cock short, light squeezes until he’s so hard he hurts, muffling his groans against Victor’s pale skin as he shifts in place.  There’s brief satisfaction when he feels Victor almost as hard as he is, but before he can make a smug comment about it, Victor starts thumbing the head of his cock, pressing until precome stains the front of his pants.  Sparks fly behind Oswald’s eyes as he shifts his hips forward again, more incessant, panting a haggard breath into the crook of Victor’s neck.

“Stop teasing,” he says, his voice already rough around the edges, and fuck, how is he always so easy for this, for this man and his damn hands and mouth and blue, blue eyes?

Victor laughs, a low sound Oswald feels more than hears, as he works at Oswald’s fly, and all Oswald can do is hold on tighter and bite his lip at the thought of what’s to come.  He shifts up a little to help Victor shuck his pants down a little, and he nearly gasps at the shock of cool air against his exposed dick, flushed and wet at the tip.  A moment’s pause, then one of Victor’s big hands wraps around Oswald’s cock, sliding up from root to tip in one agonizingly good motion, and the Oswald keens, an embarrassingly high sound that makes him grateful it’s after hours.  There’s another rumbling laugh from Victor, one that turns into a pleased little moan when he thumbs the dripping head of Oswald’s cock, spreading the precome around the head.

“You’re so wet,” Victor says, and Oswald flushes down to to his chest at the filthy comment, made all the more erotic by how surprised and _pleased_ Victor sounds at this discovery.  He buries his face a little harder against Victor’s shoulder, sure that Victor can feel the burning red of Oswald’s cheeks.

“That all for me?” Victor hums, and Oswald snorts even as his traitorous cock oozes more sticky precome onto Victor’s waiting hand.

“Do you see anyone else here, V- _ahh,_ ” Oswald groans, cut off when Victor starts jacking him in earnest, his fist tight and slick and utterly perfect.

It’s so good, better than good even, a growing symphony of sensation and pleasure that has Oswald shaking, eyes squeezed shut tight as he focuses on riding the waves.  He presses open-mouthed kisses and groans against Victor’s shoulder as they build a steady rhythm, Victor working him in slow jerks while Oswald gives shallow thrusts into his fist, a gradual buildup of heat in his belly that makes his toes curl in his shoes.  Then Victor starts talking, all murmured _that’s it, just let go_ , and Oswald is so fucking close and ready to obey the sweet encouragement, but not just yet, not when he needs so much more than Victor’s fist, not when when he makes a noise like a wounded animal because his desire is too great to contain, spilling past his lips like a plea.

“Wait,” he gasps, wet and urgent.  “Victor, _wait._ ”

Victor’s movements immediately halt, and Oswald can feel Victor’s stare burning into his back as he shuffles Oswald backwards, a line of concern on his brow.  Oswald knows what he must look like, shiny, plump lips and disheveled hair, and he swallows down a brief flare of embarrassment at the thought.  

“What’s wrong?”

Oswald wants to say _nothing, nothing’s wrong, except I want you too much and I don’t know how to handle it._

“I want - more,” he eventually settles on, the syllables slurred, pleasure making his tongue fumble over the words.

Victor blinks, and and while he can’t blame him for being confused by Oswald’s statement, made vague out his haste and desire, he grows defensive, bristling in place as anger bubbles up like magma.

“More?” Victor prods, and it’s like a dam breaking, washing away all of Oswald’s earlier hesitancy, his need to be touched so deeply outweighing any hints of embarrassment or shame.

“ _Yes_ ,” Oswald hisses through gritted teeth, equal parts impatience and hunger.

And when Victor still stares like that’s not enough, like Oswald isn’t already rolling over and exposing his soft, needy underbelly enough, he tacks on, “Please.”

That appears to be the right thing to say, because the next thing Oswald knows he’s being pulled in for a hard, messy kiss, one Oswald returns with fervor, licking into Victor’s mouth and shuddering when their tongues brush, the differences in their temperature never as delightful as this.  No sooner does Oswald start to lose himself in the kiss, teeth clacking together as he tries to get closer still, Victor pulls back and lifts Oswald from beneath his arms.

“Up.”

The sound Oswald makes can only be described as petulant, but he stands nonetheless, frown twisting on his lips and feeling put-out.  His legs are shaking already, and he has to steady himself with one hand on the back of the gilded chair as Victor stands, striding over to the Oswald’s desk to rustle through one of the drawers for their bottle of lube.  Prize in hand, Victor returns to Oswald’s luxurious chair, sitting down and looking like a king in his own right, regal and haunting.  Oswald’s stomach does little flips as he steps out of his pants and underwear, never looking away from Victor, openly admiring his handsome face and sleek, defined chest in a way that he can’t quite do when they’re in the public eye.

_To care is to be weak.  To be known to care is to be an open target._

He knows this lesson well, has learned it in the hardest way possible, with a scar along his gut that will never fade, a far more immortal reminder than any statue of ice on display.

He knows this, but still he steps forward, still wears his heart on his sleeve and settles on Victor’s lap, exhaling a quiet sigh when Victor’s arms wrap around him again like this is where they belong.

There’s the click of the lube cap behind him, and Oswald shows his appreciation for this development by mouthing at Victor’s neck, sharply nipping along the pale skin, pausing only to suck a mark just below Victor’s jawline.  Victor’s follow sharp inhale leaves Oswald smirking against the wet, abused skin, and he plants a deceivingly sweet kiss to the spot in apology.  He gets fingers tickling along his sides for the trouble, and Oswald stifles his squeak of surprised laughter against Victor’s neck, pressing a soft smile there, one he hopes Victor can feel.   _You make me like this._

Laughter turns to a soft gasp at the sensation of a cold, slick finger pressing against his hole, nothing more than a light caress against the puckered skin.  He allows Victor to play for a little while, alternating the amount of pressure against his quivering hole but never fully pushing inside him.  The promise of something more becomes too much to bear, and Oswald grinds down on Victor’s lap, cock dripping more precome on Victor’s pants at the feeling of the hard length beneath him.

“Get on with it,” Oswald says, the demand lessened by how reedy his voice sounds.

“Bossy,” Victor huffs, though he sounds far from annoyed, and then he presses his finger inside and _oh_.

Oswald sucks in a deep breath at the cool intrusion, lips parting as Victor crooks his fingers just right, sending stars behind Oswald’s eyes.  Victor hums, satisfied, as he works his finger in and out, the pace slow, the stretch glorious.  When Victor’s thrusts come faster, Oswald tilts his head back with a groan, allowing himself to enjoy the silky pleasure burning him up like a fever.  It’s the kind of gluttonous hedonism Oswald had never permitted himself before, despite the occasional want, and he rewards Victor for his effort by allowing him to see and hear that he’s doing a good job.

A second finger slides in, and Oswald can barely moan out a quiet _yes_ before Victor starts finger fucking him in earnest, his rhythm slow but deep, fingers crooking up just at the right angle and time to have Oswald trying to muffle a cry by biting his lips, the taste of blood blooming on his tongue.

“There you go,” Victor encourages, voice rough around the edges as he twists and scissors his fingers. “Taking it so well.”

A shiver runs of Oswald’s spine at the praise; just a few simple words, but they shake him to his core, his insides feeling liquid and skin like butter, every iota of his being focused on Victor, on being good for him.  Victor picks up the pace, and Oswald can hear the wet sound of Victor’s fingers working him so expertly, even over his litany low groans and gasps.  He must make quite a sight, clinging to Victor as Victor’s hand works quickly between Oswald’s bare, exposed ass, other arm wrapped around him tightly and forcing Oswald to be still and take it, and the lewd image his brain paints is enough to make him moan and bury his face in the crook of Victor’s neck, eyes closing so he can better focus on the waves of pleasure.

By the time Victor adds a third finger, Oswald is edging toward the brink, wriggling about on Victor’s lap and panting hot breath against the chill ice-blue of Victor’s neck.  Each rub against his prostate as him seeing white, and he’s so close, just needs a little more to send him over the edge.  As if reading his mind, Victor tightens his hold on Oswald and lifts his hips, grinding his hard, clothed dick against Oswald, who can only mindlessly rock down in response, bouncing a little like he can ride it this way.  Fingers rub against his prostate just right, and when Victor murmurs, _come on, just like that, let me feel you come,_ Oswald all but screams against Victor’s neck, teeth latching onto skin as he comes in hard, long spurts, body quaking from the force of it.

The next minute is hazy, like waking from a dream.  He’s vaguely aware of Victor fucking him through his orgasm, and then a blissful cloud of pleasure and affection that he floats through like time has stopped.  Head feeling both heavy and light, he loosens his grasp around Victor and straightens, blearily blinking up at Victor, who looks pleased and just a little smug.  Oswald snorts, but allows it, too tired to and well-fucked to complain.

Only when he shifts and feels Victor’s still hard cock does Oswald remember that Victor hasn’t come yet.  With a quiet _oh_ , he tries to scoot backwards, ready to return the favor.  Victor stops him by pulling him forward again with the arm around Oswald’s back, followed by a quick, “You don’t have to.”

Oswald bows forward shakes his head, tickling the bottom of Victor’s chin with his hair.  “I know, but I want to.”

“Next time,” Victor says, and he sounds so assured and final that Oswald drops the argument with nothing more than a grunt in acknowledgement, resting his chin on Victor’s shoulder as the last remnants of pleasure fizzle across his skin like fireworks.

 _Next time_ , Oswald thinks to himself, endorphins making his brain soft and wild, delighting in the knowledge that, even when the rest of the world around him burns, he has this: a quiet room with a quiet man, always ready to bring him home.


End file.
